Grey Warden Wynona
by transnaoto
Summary: Wynona Surana had never strived to be anything more than a mage growing up. Due to circumstances she can't control, she finds herself thrust into the Warden ranks. Saving the world is tough when you have little idea how to even do it, but someone's gotta do it- and for some reason, that 'someone' is Wynona. Includes multiple wardens.
1. Chapter 1

**The Harrowing.**

Stepping into the large, circular room was like stepping into somewhere completely separate from the rest of the tower—like stepping into a place far away and distant, high in the clouds.

The tower had never been lively or cheery, but it had a sense of life to it; it breathed, and in it, Wynona could feel the presence of all the other young mages, so close she always had the sense she could reach out and brush her fingers against one of their robes. Here, she didn't have that feeling—for one, the room was unbelievably cold. Wynona rubbed her hands carefully against her hips, trying to stir up some heat in them. It was airy, she thought, except there were hardly any windows except tall ones, high up above her head, so tall she could barely see them. She craned her neck back to catch a glimpse and felt Irving's hand press into her shoulder, urging her forward. Greagoir, the head Templar of the tower, stepped forward out of the mass of grim faced Templars, who all looked at Wynona as though she were already dead. Wynona lowered her gaze at them, snapping back to attention only when she felt Irving's nails dig a bit too deep into her shoulder.

An annoyed look was on Greagoir's face. "Surana," he snapped, his voice ringing like a drum in the small space. Wynona squinted, her fingers twitching to reach up and hold her ears. "Repeat what I have said."

"I…" Another squeeze of the shoulder; Wynona bit her tongue, lowering her head ever so slightly. Irving's hold on her shoulder loosened, then released.

A smug look crossed Greagoir's face, as he crossed his arms and turned his body away, as though to face the other Templars. "Magic exists to serve men, and never to rule over them." Greagoir repeated the old phrase as Templars often did—with a loud, booming voice and a tone of obvious pride. Wynona bit her tongue as he went on. "Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic…" By now, Wynona was no longer listening; all she could do was study and stare at the small pedestal the Templars surrounded, which glowed and shined and brilliant blue. Wynona's fingers twitched, and she gripped the sides of her robes; excitement bubbled in her chest, and it was all she could do to remain still. Her expression remained the same, even as Greagoir ended his speech and turned back to Wynona, as if remembering she was the one he was to be addressing. His expression was unreadable as it ever was. Irving stepped forward, as if on cue.

"This is why the Harrowing exists," Irving said, looking deeply into Wynona's eyes, holding her full attention. "The ritual sends you into the fade, and there you will face a demon, armed only with your will."

Wynona nodded once. "I understand," she said, making her voice as loud as the other Templar's had been. Greagoir scowled as her voice echoed across the tower. Irving only showed a small smile. Wynona made a move toward the pedestal, which Greagoir stopped with a quick snatch at her sleeve.

"Know this apprentice," he said, his eyes boring deep into hers. "If you fail, we Templars will perform our duty. You will die."

"I understand," Wynona said, a slight edge rising in her tone. The two stood staring at each other, a heavy silence present in the tower. Greagoir released her arm, stepping back amongst the Templars. He made a guester at the pedestal, a tired, angry look still on his face.

"This is lyrium; the very essence of magic. And your gateway into the fade. Tread carefully, mage." Wynona made another move towards the pedestal; again she was stopped, though this time the hand was gentler. Irving turned her to face him, pulling her aside slightly, towards the stairs. His eyes were caring, yet firm as he looked at her.

"The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child," he all but whispered, "Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you. Keep your wits about you, and know that the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real."

"The apprentice must go through this test alone, First Enchanter," Greagoir snapped, taking a step forward and brushing his fingers lightly over the blade at his side. Wynona tensed, keeping her small body squared in front of the First Enchanter. Irving's eyes narrowed, and he released Wynona's shoulders, arms dropping back to his side. He stepped back.

"Some good advice will do her no harm, Greagoir," Irving said calmly. He looked back at Wynona, who was staring up at him intently for her next move. A small nod; stiffly, Wynona turned away from the First Enchanter, ignoring Greagoir's waving hand as she went for the pedestal.

It was an impulse she moved so fast; one section she was by the First Enchanter, another she had her hand plunged deep into the blue liquid, pulling it out as it shimmer and shined, shining so bright that it all but blinded Wynona, until she could see nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Aftermath.**

"Hello? Can you hear me? Please Wynona, open your eyes…"

Wynona opened her eyes weakly at the familiar voice, shutting them almost instantly again, her eyes unprepared for the bright lights and number of shapes and shadows. "Jowan…?" she mumbled, lifting a hand weakly to rub the stars from her eyes.

A hand clamped around hers, stretching it out and resting it against something solid. A heavy sigh; a number of quiet murmurs.

"Thank the Maker, Wynona—I worried you'd never wake up!" Wynona opened her eyes a crack, focusing her gaze on Jowan's shape, who sat sheepishly at the edge of her bed, clinging to Wynona's hand like a small child would with his mother. Beyond Jowan, a number of apprentices stood at Jowan's shoulders, leaning forward as if ready to cling to Wynona's every word. She sat up groggily, feeling her body ache and grown in protest as she did. She shook Jowan off as he tried to help steady her.

She was in the infirmary now; she could hear the bustling of nurses and healers, a group of them circled around her neighbor, who, despite the spell being placed on his burnt flesh, seemed more interested in Wynona's presence—or more likely the crowd she'd gathered.

Wynona lowered her gaze, brushing hair out of her face and mouth; she began to draw her hand away from Jowan's, but his hold only tightened, practically hugging her small hand to his chest. He leaned forward and, like the mother hen he was, brushed some loose strands of hair away from Wynona's face.

"How was it? Are you alright, do you need anything? _How was it?" _

"Jowan," Wynona muttered, his voice making her head throbbed. Jowan sat back, looking apologetic.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just—we're curious, you know? Everyone is saying your Harrowing was the smoothest, quickest Harrowing they'd ever seen—ever!" Jowan's voice caught at the strained look on Wynona's face. "Right, sorry." He lowered his voice.

A small smile crept its way onto Wynona's face, her eyebrows rising ever so slightly. "The quickest, eh?" Ha. For Wynona, it'd felt as if she'd been there for hours.

Jowan nodded feverishly, and then stopped. Glancing around at the small crowd they'd gathered, he released Wynona's hand, much to the elf's relief.

"Alright," he addressed them, voice a bit sharper, as to capture their attention, "you've seen her and now she's awake. Move on with you all, you're not even supposed to _be _in here."

As if summoned, the spirit healers began ushering the young apprentices out, who muttered and groaned and cast curious glances in Wynona's direction; Wynona simply ignored them. Jowan cleared his throat, catching another hold on Wynona's hand.

"Now that _that's _out of the way—" he said, and leaned forward, eyes shining. "How was it?" He whispered it as if he were sharing a secret.

Wynona leaned back against the head board, smirking in a devilish sort of way. "You mean the Harrowing?"

"What else would I mean?" Jowan asked impatiently. "So?"

"It was… harrowing."

"Oh, ha ha, you're so very clever. I'm being serious here."

"Jowan—"

"I know you're not supposed to tell me, but c'mon Wynona, we're _friends," _he pleaded, "Just—any kind of hint."

Wynona sighed, rubbing her forehead with her one free hand. "It was—I don't know, exhausting? I had to fight a demon."

"A demon?" Jowan sat back, eyes wide. "And that's it?"

_"'And that's it'…" _Wynona grumbled sarcastically to herself, then to Jowan, "Look, you'll just have to see for yourself when your time comes."

"Right. Whenever _that _happens." Jowan released Wynona's hand, standing up and beginning to pace the infirmary space. "I've been here longer then even _you _have."

"Maybe they just think you're not ready yet."

"Oh yes, because that's also very reassuring," Jowan said sarcastically, then sighed. "I don't know, Wynona—it feels, sometimes—I think they just don't w_ant _to test me."

"You worry too much," Wynona said, her eyes moving with Jowan as he paced. "Everyone goes through the Harrowing."

Jowan stopped, a serious expression crossing his face. "The Tranquil don't," he said, "like Owain—you either do the Harrowing, the Rite of Tranquility, or you die."

"They aren't going to kill you, Jowan."

Jowan scoffed, sitting again at the edge of Wynona's bed. "Yes, well they might as well, if they plan to make me Tranquil." A pause; Jowan turned to face Wynona, his eyebrows knit together in worry. "You've seen them around the Tower, haven't you, Wynona?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. "They're so cold—you can barely call them human anymore. If they were to make me like that…"

"Oi." Jowan stopped, as though snapped out of a trance. Wynona stared at him, frowning. "Don't talk like that. Not today."

Jowan swallowed and nodded, pursing his lips. He pushed himself off Wynona's bed.

"I- I shouldn't be stressing you about this. It _is _a day of celebration, after all," he said, his tone sheepish once more. "The First Enchanter wanted to see you when you awoke—if you awoke. Which you did. "

"Where is he?" Wynona asked, slipping herself carefully off the edge of the bed.

"In his study, with Greagoir no doubt. Don't keep them waiting, alright?"

"I never do."

An amused smile lit Jowan's lips briefly, and then vanished, replaced by a sad, almost somber look. Lately, that was the only way he looked at Wynona. Wynona looked away, maneuvering around him carefully and exiting the infirmary.

* * *

**Cullen.**

Cullen straightened, adjusting his position as Wynona came down the hall his way. She stopped by him, offering a weak wave as greeting.

"Cullen."

"Miss Surana," Cullen said politely, his face slightly flushed—from the heavy armor, Wynona had no doubt. She lowered her hand back to her side.

"I—" a pause. Cullen made a motion towards the door he stood beside, where muffled talking could be heard. "The First Enchanter requested your presence earlier. Best not to keep him waiting, yes?"

Wynona sighed. "Why does everyone think I'm _always _keeping people waiting?"

A look of alarm crossed Cullen's face, his neck and ears growing even redder.

"I-I meant nothing by it," he said hurriedly, "nothing ill, that is—w-what I meant to say—"

"Cullen." Cullen clamped his jaw shut, looking miserable. A small smile twitched its way onto Wynona's face. "I was kidding." Cullen blinked, looking dumbfounded.

"I… see. O-oh. Forgive me, Miss Surana." Wynona chuckled, her smile almost impish. Cullen's face flushed even more.

* * *

**Duncan of the Grey Wardens.**

When Wynona opened the door to Irving's study, she was immediately hit by Greagoir's loud, booming voice, which bounced and echoed off the First Enchanter's stone walls and into the halls.

"—already given enough to this blasted war effort," she heard Greagoir say as she shut the door, "Already we've sent our best—Wynne, Uldred. How many more do they expect us to give?"

"I'm surprised to see you align yourself with our fellow mages, Greagoir," The First Enchanter said, edge building in his voice, then softening as his eyes fell on Wynona. "But let us discuss this another time." Greagoir scowled, but was silent as Irving beckoned Wynona forward.

Between the First Enchanter and Knight Commander stood a man Wynona had never seen before. He was tall and well built, with brown skin and dark eyes which studied Wynona with mild interest—yet those weren't the things Wynona noticed first.

The first was his armor, a mixture of blues and silvers and grey metal; on his chest engraved was a lion—or perhaps an eagle? Either way, it was large and powerful, wings spread out wide and head thrown back, and studying it, Wynona almost didn't notice the First Enchanter clear his throat a second time. Wynona blinked, and came forward. A small smile lit the stranger's lips.

"Ah and here is our newest sister of the Circle," Irving said, his tone rather fond. "Awake at last, I see." Wynona straightened her shoulders proudly, though she nodded politely.

"You called for me, First Enchanter?"

"Ah yes, child. There was someone I wanted you to meet," Irving said. The First Enchanter cast a glance toward the stranger, who straightened and bowed his head respectively. Irving made a small gesture with his hand. "This is Duncan of the Grey Wardens, a dear friend of the Circle."

Wynona's ears perked in interest. "A Grey Warden? Here?"

"Grey Wardens go wherever they are called to," the stranger- Duncan- said, "And at the moment, we've been called to aid the king at Ostagar. My time here will be brief."

Irving smiled, looking proud as he spoke. "Duncan and his forces shall be assisting the king in the coming fight."

"Who are we fighting?" Wynona asked.

"The darkspawn grow ever closer," Duncan said, his expression grave, "I fear this battle is only the first of many to come."

"Now, now, Duncan," Irving chided, "This is a happy day for the girl! We shouldn't scare her with talks of darkspawn and war…"

"I don't mind," Wynona said, momentarily forgetting her manners. A flicker of irritation crossed Irving's eyes; he turned almost completely away from Duncan to look at Wynona.

"Regardless," he said, "That isn't the only reason I brought you here. I also wanted you to know your phylactery has been taken to Denerim. You are now an official mage of the Circle. Congratulations, my child."

Excitement bubbled in Wynona's chest, and she smiled widely, bowing her head in thanks. "Thank you, First Enchanter."

Duncan turned to Irving. "I'm sorry—what is this phylactery?"

"When new mages come to us, a small portion of their blood is taken and stored in small flasks, in the ill chance…" Irving trailed off; Duncan's eyebrows furrowed.

"So they can be hunted down like wild animals if they turn apostate?"

"Yes, well… the circle must take its precautions," Irving said, seeming uncomfortable with the discussion. He turned again to Wynona. "Your robes, staff, and ring of study have been placed in your new quarters; you may fetch them once you are done here. Besides that, the day is free to you—you may rest, or read in the library."

Wynona's ears perked. "May I leave the tower?"

The First Enchanter's eyes twinkled. "In due time."

"And what about the matter _at hand_, Irving?" Greagoir suddenly snapped, glaring at the First Enchanter, "We are _not _done discussing what I originally brought up."

The First Enchanter sighed, as if tired. "Yes, yes," Irving said, then paused. He looked back at Wynona. "Child, would you mind seeing Duncan to the guest quarters?"

"Can Ser Duncan not find his quarters on his own?"

The First Enchanter crossed his arms. "Being difficult now, are we? You are a mage of the Circle—I expected you to act like it."

"Then I'd be happy to see Duncan to his quarters."

* * *

**Grey Wardens.**

"Thank you for assisting me," Duncan said, moving past Wynona to inspect his new quarters for the night. He glanced back at her slightly, noticing she continued to stand in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," Wynona said, suddenly feeling shy, "I just… what is the symbol on your armor? The eagle… lion… creature."

Duncan turned to face her, a twinkle of amusement now present in his gaze. He tapped his finger lightly against the image. "It's a griffon," he said, "in times before, Grey Wardens were said to ride them as men now ride horses. Sadly though, they're all extinct now."

"Oh."

Another pause; Wynona rung her hands nervously. "May I ask you something else?"

"Certainly."

"What… exactly _are _the Grey Wardens? I've read very little about them—they're a league of heroes, aren't they?" Duncan almost smiled.

"In a way," he said, "Grey Wardens are a class of warriors, called on to fight the darkspawn menace. We are elves, humans, dwarves—"

"Elves?"

Duncan paused; he smiled. "Yes, elves. Many of our greatest warriors have been elves; in fact, Garahel, the last Grey Warden to end a Blight, was an elf. The Grey Wardens do not distinguish between the races; we value our men by the quality of their spirit over anything else." A somber look crossed Duncan's face. "Has being an elf in the Circle caused you much difficulty?"

Wynona wouldn't look at him; she shrugged half-heartedly. "Hardly," she mumbled, even as the world 'knife-ear', a word thrown at her by young Templars, rang in her ears. Duncan seemed to read her expression.

"It is hard to change the mindset of the many. When you always grow up believing others are inferior, it is hard to change that view."

"I'm a mage now," Wynona mumbled, digging her nails into her palms. "People should fear me."

Duncan nodded. "A true statement, although I'd be careful to who you express that to." Wynona lowered her gaze.

"I'd love to discuss this more, but I really should get to my other duties," she said.

Duncan nodded. "Of course, I wouldn't want to keep you." He turned back to inspecting his quarters. Wynona stood there a few more seconds, her head still buzzing with questions she wanted to ask. Instead she exited the guest quarters, shutting the door softly behind her.

* * *

**A New Mage.**

It was a weird feeling knowing she was a mage; even weirder wearing the robes that marked her as one.

Wynona adjusted the clasps around her waist, twisting and turning in front of the long mirror, the golden color shining and bouncing off the surface of the mirror. The fabric was fine and beautiful; it felt so light between her fingers. She felt she could twist and turn in front of that mirror all day long—but she was a mage now. And mages didn't twist and turn in front of mirrors all day, trying to make the flecks of gold shine.

Carefully, as if afraid to break it, she slipped her ring of study onto her finger—a size too big, as her fingers were small and thin. She closed her palm, so that it wouldn't fly off.

A quiet knock came from the door, and turning her head, she was met with Jowan, standing nervously in the doorway, ringing his hands. She smirked and twisted around to look at him, making sure to swish her skirt so he could see the golden color move.

"What do you think? Pretty, isn't it?" she asked, and did another twist. Jowan barely looked at her.

"Hm? Yes, yes, lovely…" he murmured, and then raised his head. He beckoned her come closer. "I need to talk with you. Do you remember what we discussed this morning?" His voice was almost a whisper.

"Why are you whispering?" Wynona whispered back jokingly, a smile playing on her face, "It looks _very _suspicious."

"Shh!" he hissed, expression alarmed. He paused, crossing his arms protectively. He looked wary. "I just—want to make sure we're not overheard. We should go somewhere else. I don't feel safe talking here."

The smile vanished from Wynona's face; her eyebrows knit together, and she frowned. "You're starting to scare me, Jowan," she said, no longer whispering. "What's going on?"

"I've… been troubled. I'll explain, please, come with me. I need your help. I'm in danger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Conscripted.**

Betrayal didn't even begin to describe how Wynona felt in that moment.

Anger, more like it. Hurt. Her blood was boiling, long after the effects of the blood magic had worn off. She felt as if she'd been thrown from the top of the tower—a shattered mess on the ground. Despite this feeling though, she stood and quickly went to the First Enchanter's side, crouching down and taking a hold of both his sleeves to steady him.

"First Enchanter," she said hurriedly, her tone desperate, "First Enchanter, please—you have to believe me, I—"

Urgh... he got away," Irving muttered, holding onto Wynona's arms to steady himself. He raised his eyes tiredly up to look at her. "Are you alright, child?"

She wasn't. "He lied to me," she said, feeling the anger boiling once again, "he said—he swore to me, First Enchanter. He _swore _he wasn't a blood mage."

A sad look entered the First Enchanter's eyes; kind, but helpless. "I believe you, child," he said, "but I'm afraid the matter at hand has become far more complicated."

"Ehg…" Wynona whipped her head around to look at the Knight-Commander, who'd risen, leaning most of his weight against a younger Templar, who looked in just as bad shape. His face was twisted up and angry, eyebrows furrowed still in slight pain. He had a hand over his stomach, though there were no wounds. "I knew it… blood magic. But to overcome so many…" he paused, as if to make a gesture to the Templars lying on the ground, never to get back up. He didn't look at them, instead choosing to take a shaky breath. "… I never thought him capable of such power."

"None of us expected this, Greagoir," Irving said, using Wynona as support as he stood up. Though he stood still rather hunched, he seemed in better health then the Knight-Commander was. He turned to Greagoir, a look of genuine concern on his face. "Are you alright?"

"As good as can be expected, given the circumstances," Greagoir snapped, pushing off the young Templar's help. He pointed an accusing finger at the First Enchanter. "If you had only let me act sooner, none of this would have ever happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down."

"This isn't the First Enchanter's fault," Wynona protested.

"Wynona…" There was warning in the First Enchanter's voice.

"You're right. It isn't. It's yours and the antics of your friends," Greagoir snapped, turning his rage onto the elf. His eyes flickered over her shoulder, seeming to glance around the area for something. "Where is the girl?" he demanded, tension seeming to rise in his voice as each second passed.

"I… I am here, ser." The initiate's voice was weak, ragged from crying. She stepped forward carefully from behind one of the pillars, obviously shaken. Wynona turned to look at her, her chest tightening; she wished desperately Lily _had _left with Jowan, if only she wouldn't have to face the trouble here now.

"You," Greagoir hissed, moving past the First Enchanter and Wynona to snatch at the frightened girl's arm, who yelped and trembled in surprise. "You have done a great dishonor to the Chantry- you helped a blood mage! Look at all he's hurt!" He made a wave to the Templars and blood on the ground, still refusing to look their way.

"She didn't _know,_" Wynona snapped, moving to defend Lily. The First Enchanter simply grasped her arm, shaking his head at her somberly. Wynona stared at him, bewildered, and then turned to look at Lily again. Lily's eyes were sad when she looked at Wynona.

"You've been a friend, but you need not protect me any further," she said.

"Lily-," Wynona said, her voice pleading. If she heard her, Lily pretended not to.

Lily swallowed, turning her complete attention back to the Knight-Commander. She bowed her head shamefully. "It… it is true. I helped a… a b-blood mage. I will accept any punishment you see fit. Even… even Aeonar," she said, barely able to choke out the name of the mage's prison between her sobs. Greagoir turned his head away, looking disgusted.

"Take her," he snapped at the few remaining Templars, who moved quickly at his orders, albeit through much limping and groaning.

Wynona glared at the ground, holding back hot tears. Irving's hold on her shoulder loosened once Lily was out of sight, his expression still rather grave. Greagoir turned back to look at Wynona, his expression no less satisfied.

"And you. Your antics have made a mockery of the Circle! You… what are we to do with you?"

Wynona's head whipped up. She looked from Irving to Greagoir, as if looking to plead to one of them. "I told you—I had no idea Jowan was a blood mage!"

"It doesn't matter!" Greagoir snapped back. He pointed an accusing finger at Wynona, jabbing her shoulder roughly so that she stumbled back a small step. "_You _helped a blood mage! All of our safety precautions, our prevention measures—all for nothing! Because of you. A punishment _must _be given."

"Greagoir, she's just a girl…" Irving said, his voice soft.

"I don't care how much you favor her, Irving," Greagoir said, "She is an accomplice to a _serious _crime. This _cannot _be overlooked."

"And I'm not saying it should, but let us—"

"Knight-Commander, if I may…" Wynona turned her head at the sound of the familiar voice. Duncan came to stand beside Wynona, stepping over one of the fallen Templars without even a second look. He cast a small glance at Wynona before turning his complete attention to the Knight-Commander. "I didn't just come here to seek mages for the king's army… I am also in the process of recruiting for the Grey Wardens." Duncan clamped a large hand on Wynona's shoulder. "Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like her to join the Warden ranks."

Greagoir's face flushed red as he stepped forward, drawing his face uncomfortably close to Duncan's, who barely moved. "No! Absolutely not," he snapped. Duncan hardly looked surprised; Irving, on the other hand, did.

"Duncan, this mage has aided a maleficar, and shown a great lack of respect for the Circle's rules."

"It is few who would go to such lengths to aid a friend…"

"Are you serious?"

Silence fell over the group; all eyes turned to Wynona, who stood wide eyed, eye brows furrowed in something like confusion. She blinked several times, trying desperately to keep the hot tears from falling. Inside, her stomach was doing all sorts of flips and turns; she had no idea how to feel. The words _Grey Warden _echoed around her head, so loud she could hardly hear her own thoughts. How intimidating and _loud _those words were. Strong words; words fit for a warrior. Not someone like Wynona, despite all her talk.

"I'm… no Grey Warden," she said, sounding almost as if she were trying to convince the three, "I'm a _mage. _My place is _here." _

Duncan reached out and took a sharp hold of Wynona's arm, his fingers digging deep into her forearm. "Don't be a fool," he said, his voice level, "You have aided a blood mage. Do you not understand the fate that falls to you if you remain?"

"But I've done nothing wrong!" Wynona protested.

"You may see it that way, but many could disagree." Duncan paused, taking a slow breath. He fixed Wynona with a level gaze. "Do you expect things to go back to the way they once were? Because I can assure you, they _won't. _And I can also assure you, your chances to live are much higher amongst the Grey Wardens then here."

Silence. Duncan loosened his hold on Wynona's arm, until she could just pull it free. She didn't. Instead, she simply stood there, as if in shock—staring at her shoes with furrowed brows, as if unsure what to do or say.

Wynona let out a slow, shaky breath. She shook her head. "Then I suppose… I'll let my fate be decided for me," she mumbled, too tired to give any more fight. Duncan frowned, looking almost disappointed; Wynona relished in that, as she knew it wasn't the answer he'd hoped for. He turned his attention back to the Knight-Commander and Irving.

"Very well. Irving, I hereby conscript this mage into the Grey Wardens."

"And I, as First Enchanter, take witness to this conscription," said Irving with a sigh. Greagoir looked from the Grey Warden to Irving, expression confused but alarmed.

"What? What is happening here? What do you mean '_conscript'?" _Greagoir snapped at Duncan. Irving folded his arms across his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Grey Wardens are given the right to conscript any and all persons they see fit for their order," Irving told him, his voice calm, "so there's nothing more that can be done here, Greagoir."

"So that's it then?" Greagoir asked, his eyes wide in bewilderment, "This mage aids a blood mage, and instead of being punished, she's rewarded? This cannot stand!"

"It can and it will," Irving snapped, the levelness in his voice suddenly gone. Greagoir fell silent; Irving paused, as if to readjust himself, and then he sighed, looking suddenly older than his years. "There is nothing more to be done here," he said again to Greagoir. Greagoir looked as if he had more to say, but he kept his mouth shut, glaring instead at the plates of his boots.

Wynona looked up at the First Enchanter. He smiled at her, albeit sadly, as if to reassure her. It didn't.

"Here you are. Newly a mage and off to be a Grey Warden," Irving said, sounding almost proud despite the circumstances. Wynona wished she could feel as confident as he sounded in her. Her heart was too heavy.

Wynona lowered her gaze, not wanting to look at him. "Will I never be able to return to the tower?" she asked, though apart of her already knew the answer. Irving was silent; his silence was Wynona's confirmation. She let out a shaky breath that was close to a sob, raising her head then bowing it again, respectively. "Thank you for everything, First Enchanter." Irving hesitated, and then bowed his head slightly as well. When his head rose again, he would not meet Wynona's eyes.

Duncan outstretched his hand to Wynona. "Come. Your life here is over," he told her. He turned and moved toward the archway leading toward the exit of the tower. "And a new one begins."


	4. Chapter 4

**Alistair.**

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings us all together."

Wynona blinked and stared up at the smiling man. He was blonde and tan skinned, his neck and face slightly flushed with sunburn. His smile seemed to stretch on for miles, friendly and genuine. She blinked several times, unsure if this was in fact the other Warden Duncan had mentioned.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked, a bit lost for words. The man only smiled further.

"Oh sorry, just trying to find a bright side to all this," he said with a small laugh. He paused, seeming to notice Wynona **for the first time**. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you're another mage, are you?"

"Why, would that make your day worse?" She asked, a bit defensively. The man blinked, seeming almost ataken back.

"Not really, I just like to know my chances of getting turned into a toad at any point," he said, and his sunshine-like smile returned to its original brightness. "Wait, now I think I know you… you're the mage Duncan picked up, right? Wini… Winifred… Wyn…"

"Wynona."

"Wynona! That's the name." He sounded proud, as if he'd figured it out himself.

"Yes. That's me," Wynona said, "and I take it your Alistair."

Alistair blinked, seeming surprised that she knew his name. "Has Duncan spoken to you about me? Good things I hope. And if they're not good things, we can just pretend they are, right?"

Alistair cleared his throat. "Anyways yes—I'm Alistair, the junior member of the Order. I'm to help you prepare for the Joining, and answer any questions you might have. Though between you and me, I'd say I'm not exactly the best for the job."

Wynona smiled. _We're doomed, _she thought. This was, to say the least, not at all what she expected when Duncan mentioned another Grey Warden. Someone older—more experienced. Not at all someone who barely looked older than she did.

Alistair smiled innocently, unaware of Wynona's wary thoughts.

* * *

**Brosca and Mahariel.**

"… Yvette Brosca from Orzammar, and Atrel of the Dalish."

Wynona had barely paid a passing glance at the two other recruits—a tall, lanky thief by the name of Daveth and a square, stocky man named Ser Jory—but her eyes raised partially in interest, eyebrows raised, at the introduction of a dwarf and a Dalish.

Yvette Brosca was as small as was to be expected of a dwarf—a few inches shorter than Wynona, though stocky and large at the same time. Her hair was stringy and brown, her skin almost a similar color. There was a mark on her face—a curving, twisting tattoo that nearly blended into the complexion of her cheek. Wynona tried to look at it more **closely**, but Yvette simply turned her face away. She nodded her head curtly in Wynona's direction, keeping her eyes almost entirely on Duncan instead. She seemed to be ready for whatever was to come.

The Dalish seemed to stand apart from everyone, particularly Duncan and the other humans; the way he stood was **closed** off, tense, his arms crossed over his chest defensively. He was tall, yet not lanky like Daveth—he was thin, but well built, his arms strong looking and brown. He made eye contact with Wynona briefly then looked away, nodding once before seeming to lose interest. His eyes were so intense—a bright blue, like looking at pure lyrium. He was lovely; Wynona could've looked at him forever.

Wynona lowered her eyes, nodding her head to the four respectively. "That's me," she said, "the new girl."

* * *

**Yvette in the Wilds.**

"So you're a mage, right?"

Wynona raised her head curiously, then quickly lowered it to look at Yvette, whose wide eyes were trained on her with such intensity that Wynona nearly looked away.

Wynona offered a weak smile, feeling the sweat starting to form around her temples. "Ah… yah… straight out of the Circle of Magi," she said.

"I don't know what that is," Yvette said, her tone blunt. She swung her arms as she walked, as if it were that much of an effort to keep up. She was, though. "It's some sort of mage place, right? Where yer mages are all stored, right?"

"I guess you could say that…"

"Soun's confining. How do you breathe? With all this air—," Yvette paused, making a motion at the wide, open skies, "—you'd think you people'd be off enjoying it! 'Stead your off cramped up in circles… Dalish over there knows where it's at!" She made a wave to Atrel, who walked several feet behind the group. His head raised slightly, the bow in his hand raising as well. He lowered it; he looked away, not even answering.

"It's not so bad," Wynona told her. She tried to think of how to describe it; how do you describe something that's so much like your home? "Some people don't like it much… but it's. Comforting. You're free to study as you please…"

Yvette made a noise, like a gargle. "Studyin', eh?" she murmured, then seemed to fall quiet. Her pace slowed; she didn't walk next to Wynona anymore.

* * *

**Witch of the Wilds.**

"What of you? Little girls are not frightened easily as men… tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

The Witch of the Wilds was not nearly as frightened as everyone made her out to be.

She was beautiful, for one. Thin and elegant looking, with jewels and finery around her neck and wrists. Her golden eyes bore into Wynona, her dark brows raised in wonder and curiosity; she stood away from the group, yet she leaned forward, partially on her heels. Wanting to be close, yet smart enough to not be. Atrel stood at Wynona's left, his bow still slightly raised, arms tense and face hard. Yvette and the other recruits had lowered their weapons, though only slightly.

Wynona made a motion to Atrel; he still didn't move. Wynona frowned. "It's Wynona," she told the witch.

The witch made a motion to herself, the silver on her fingers glittering in the half-light. "And you may call me Morrigan. Charmed, I'm sure."

"Right, right, introductions are good, yes," Alistair interjected, moving to stand infront of Wynona, his build blocking her view of the witch. Morrigan stepped back an inch, looking unfazed. "Now give us what we came for—the Grey Warden Treaties. Those belong to _our _Order, and if you don't, we…. Um—o-our friend here," he made a quick motion to Atrel, who was all too willing to step forward, "will shoot an arrow straight through your heart. Yes, that's right."

Morrigan crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. "And then you would never get your treaties, and this whole exchange would be for naught, would it not?"

"I—s-suppose you're right, um…"

"I say we shoot her anyhow," Atrel muttered. Alistair made a cutting motion his way; Atrel lowered his bow only slightly, glaring at a spot on the ground.

"I would not, for I was not the one who removed your treaties," Morrigan said, now sounding irritated.

"Then who did?" Yvette asked, shaking her mace a bit threateningly. Alistair made another desperate motion to calm her down. She simply scowled.

"That would be my mother."

"Your mother?" Wynona asked, surprised. Yvette scoffed.

"Yes, my mother! Did you think I spawned from a log?"

"A scary, weird talking log…"

"Don't believe her," Yvette said, her gaze moving from Wynona to Alistair and back again. "She's a witch, right? And witches don't exactly mean good things!"

"She's right," Daveth said, his accent so thick in his fright it was nearly impossible to understand him. "She'll put us in the pot, she will!"

"We _need _those treaties," Alistair murmured to the group, then a bit louder to Morrigan, "And where could we, uh, find this mother of yours?"

"I can bring you to her if you like," Morrigan said. A silence fell over the group. Morrigan frowned. "If I wished to do you ill, I would have, would I have not? She is not far, and you will find the trip worthwhile."

"I say we go," Wynona said. A look of alarm crossed Atrel's face.

"You flat ears truly are insane," Atrel said, then in a slightly hushed voice, "I say we _force _her to bring these treaties _to _us, if she truly has them. There is no point in being dragged into whatever this witch has planned."

"Hey look, I don't trust her either, but Duncan said it was important we have those treaties, so we _need those treaties," _Alistair said, looking torn.

"How about this?" Yvette said, and all eyes turned on her, "me and Dalish stay here, while the rest of ya go with the witch. If ya don't come back, we go and slaughter the old bat. Good?"

"Agreed," Atrel said, almost immediately.

"H-hey now…"

Morrigan cleared her throat, looking impatient. Alistair turned back to face her.

"Alright witch, we'll go with you," he said. "But if you pull any funny business…"

"Oh yes. I am sure the consequences will be most diar."

* * *

**Results of the Joining.**

The pain was excruciating.

It started in her core, like boiling oil. It surged up, through her veins and up her spine, filling her head with such an intense pressure that she couldn't even stand to stay awake.

Even passed out, she still felt it though. Like fire burning in her lungs. Flashes of visions in her head, all moving so fast, yet she couldn't even shut her eyes to the sight of them. It was everywhere. She wanted to scream, but it was like her lungs were already full. She wanted to tear her flesh, rip it down to the bone—anything to stop the searing pain, anything to just make it _stop. _

It felt as if the pain would never end. Yet, out of nowhere, it did.

Her head still pulsing, she opened her eyes weakly, finding herself facing the clear dark blue sky, the faint outline of the moon present just overhead. The ground was cold, and the back of her head still hurt from where she fell. She tried to sit up.

"Hey… hey Duncan, she's awake!"

She felt a hand at her back and, raising her head weakly, she was met with the face of Alistair, too close and concerned. She shrunk away without really thinking about it.

"Oh thank the Maker—quite a ride, eh?" Alistair gave a weak smile and a laugh, putting his hand on Wynona's shoulder to help her sit up. "At least one of you woke up—Yvette keeps thrashing about, and Atrel's still yet to move."

"And Daveth and Ser Jory…?" Wynona asked with a small groan. Alistair was silent. It only took a couple of seconds for Wynona to remember what had happened; she turned her head away, the smell of Ser Jory's blood still fresh in her nose.

She hadn't expected it—for Daveth to take a sip and just die. Duncan had warned them, yet still she hadn't expected… Wynona shook her head, as if trying to clear the image from her head. She gripped Alistair's arm for support.

"The other two…?" She asked, almost worried for the answer.

Alistair smiled assuringly. "Alive," he told her. Wynona sighed in relief.

Duncan crossed the courtyard over to her, crouching down by Wynona's side. She raised her eyes to look at him, feeling suddenly angry. She leaned toward him, but Alistair held her back.

"Nothing you said prepared me for that," she snapped.

"I apologize," Duncan said, "If you had been informed beforehand, it would have made things complicated."

"I still can't believe you killed Ser Jory…"

"It wasn't my original intent," Duncan said curtly. "But Ser Jory gave me no choice. But let us speak of more important matter: what is important now is you've survived your Joining. I am happy to announce, Wynona, that you are now, from this day forth, a mage of the Grey Wardens."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Tower of Ishal.**

Wynona cast a fire charm on the nearest genlock, which hissed and fizzled into ash on the ground, almost the moment the spell made contact. Wynona huffed, holding the mage staff out in front of her protectively, her eyes shifting one way to the other. Alistair's breath was ragged as he lowered his sword, wiping sweat from his brow.

"That's all of them," he said, sounding relieved.

Atrel lowered his bow, frowning. "For now," he said. Alistair scowled, but didn't seem to pay him attention. Yvette lifted her helmet, letting out a low breath when she saw the number of bodies on the ground.

"Sodding ancestors…"

"Duncan _said _this'd be an in and out job," Atrel said, turning to Alistair. "So why are there so many darkspawn about?!"

"I-I don't know, he didn't exactly count on darkspawn overrunning the tower, now did he?" Alistair's tone was irritated, looking as though he was on his last straw. And Wynona thought he might be, with how much the two had bickered on their way up here.

None of them had expected the number of darkspawn when they entered the Tower of Ishal. They'd been warned but still—the sight of it was quite a shock. What no one could seem to figure out was _how _so many of them had managed their way in in such a short amount of time.

Wynona lowered her staff, slinging it back over her shoulder for safe keeping. Yvette fanned her face before lowering the helmet again.

"Now's not the time," Wynona said. "We need to light the beacon!"

Alistair nodded. "R-right. Right," he said. "Let's get a move on then."

* * *

**Morrigan and Flemeth in the Wilds.**

"You there. Have you awoken from your slumber finally?"

Wynona sat up slowly, pressing her fingers to her forehead hard. She raised her head slowly, her eyes coming to meet Yvette's large, orb-like gaze.

Yvette gripped her shoulders and shook her roughly. "Sodding… you had us worried!" Her voice was a mixture of anger and relief, her normal roughness sounding less threatening then it tended to. "Are you alright? Can you see?"

"I can see," Wynona mumbled.

"If that Wilds' witch hadn't…." Yvette's voice trailed off. She gripped Wynona's arms tighter, then released her, sitting back.

Wynona raised her head to gaze around their surroundings. They were in a small hut, the walls wooden and smelling of pine. Jars of things lined the wall, books holding each other up on the shelves. It was small; it barely seemed livable. Her eyes fell on the golden gaze of Morrigan, who stood just past Yvette by the fire. Wynona nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of her. Morrigan simply looked pleased.

"Ah so there you are," she purred, crossing her arms. "You had your companions worried sick. Or so I've gathered."

Wynona blinked, as if to make sure she was really there. "I remember you…. The girl from the Wilds." Morrigan seemed pleased to be remembered.

"I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten," she said, "and you are back in the Wilds, where I am tending to your wounds."

"Wounds..?" Wynona sat forward slightly, an immediate feeling of faint pain circulating through her stomach. She'd been stripped of the arcane robes she'd been given previously by Duncan—past Yvette, she could see them folded neatly at the end of the bed. Her stomach was bandaged lightly, the bandages stretching up over her chest and past her shoulder blade. She touched the bandages hesitantly, as if to make sure they were real.

"You got'n arrow in the stomach," Yvette told her. She had bandages on her arms and hands. "We thought you wouldn't make it. If it weren't for these witches…"

Morrigan made a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, 'us witches'," she said, sounding unconcerned. "My Mother mostly. You do remember my mother, do you not? And of her daring rescue?"

Wynona blinked, sitting up further. "Rescue? You mean from the tower?"

Morrigan's eyebrows raised. "You mean you remember nothing?"

"I remember the tower being overrun by darkspawn…"

"The man who was to aid your king quit the field… the entire party was overrun and slaughtered," Morrigan said.

Alarm crossed Wynona's face. "Slaughtered?" It was hard to choke the word out. "What about the rest of the Grey Wardens? The king?"

"All dead," Morrigan said simply. "It was mere luck mother managed to save you and the rest of your group when she did. Your friend, the blond one… he is not taking the news well."

"Blond..? You mean Alistair?" Relief flooded over Wynona, at knowing more than just her and Yvette remained.

"Yes, if we are speaking of the bumbly, weepy one in front of my mother's hut," Morrigan said, "Would it be unkind to say he is overreacting?" Wynona ignored her question, instead focusing on standing and gathering her clothes. She began tugging on the arcane robes, careful to mind her bandages.

"We gotta get outta here," Wynona said breathlessly, her hair sticking up in all ends once she'd managed to dress. She started putting on her boots; Morrigan simply watched her.

"Alright, if you desire," she said, "But you should know; mother wished to speak with you, once you awoke. You should do that before you venture forth." Wynona stopped, raising her head slightly.

"Why does your mother want to see me?" she asked. Morrigan shrugged.

"How should I know? Mother very rarely shares her thoughts with me." Morrigan paused, clapping her hands together lightly. "Now while you attend to that—I shall make something to eat." Morrigan turned away, plucking a book off the shelf overhead. Yvette and Wynona exchanged a look. Adjusting her belt and fixing the straps on her gloves one last time, Wynona exited the hut, barely giving Morrigan a second glance.

Outside the hut, the Wilds were very bright. The half sunken sun reflected off the nearby lake and into Wynona's eyes, and she blinked and squinted, blocking the light with a raised hand. A figure turned quickly as she closed the door behind her, though it was still too bright to see anything but their sillohuette. She heard a sharp intake of breath. She could just make out the figure of Atrel leaning against the side of the hut, straightening as her and Yvette presented themselves.

"See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man," said Morrigan's mother, waving to Wynona.

Morrigan's mother's features were similar to Morrigan, if not stretched and warn—the same golden eyes, the same relaxed, bored expression. Even the way she held herself was similar to Morrigan, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, without a care in the world. Despite her age though, Wynona was not quick to relax around her; in fact, she felt herself stiffen and recoil slightly at her presence, though she wasn't sure why.

Alistair crossed over toward Wynona, his strides wide and quick. He nearly ran into her, tottering back on his heels, staring down at her with wide brown eyes. His face was nearly drained of color, and his eyes were red and puffy from crying, but he seemed relieved.

"You… you're alive!" he sounded almost unbelieving, like this was a dream. He blinked a few times, then laughed gently. "Ha. Huh, I thought—I thought you were dead for sure."

Wynona looked up at him blankly. A slow smile came to her face, noticing his wariness. "Heh well… it takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me," she said. Alistair's face fell; Wynona knew immediately that was the wrong thing to say.

"Duncan's dead," he said through a choked sob. "The king, the grey wardens… all dead." He let out a shaky breath. "This almost doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, _we'd _be dead on top of that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," Morrigan's mother said, a spark of irritation in his eyes. Alistair raised his head to look at her, blinking in surprise.

She gave a dismissive wave. "Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, I suppose that will do."

"_The _Flemeth? From the Legends?" A misty, almost dreamy look crossed Alistair's face. He gave a sharp intake of breath, suddenly looking as if he wanted to flee. "Daveth was right… you're the Witch of the Wilds."

"Oh ancestors—who _cares _what she is?" Atrel asked, pushing himself off the side of the house. He paused, his expression seeming to change; he bowed to Flemeth, looking surprisingly docile. "I suppose we should thank you." Flemeth looked pleased.

"Yes. I suppose you should."

"Dalish is right," Yvette said. "We can't be divided on this. We need to figure out what to do."

Alistair suddenly looked angry. "We need to bring Loghain to judgment! _Why _would he do this?"

"Now _that _is a good question," Flemeth said, her expression grave, "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. _Perhaps _he does not see that the evil behind it is the truth threat."

Alistair let out a shaky breath. "The archdemon?"

Wynona vaguely remembered reading about previous Blights, in the histories of the library. On quiet, off days she'd shifted through old volumes, hunched over the dying light of a candle. In every history, the archdemon was always present—an old, tainted god who rose up from the earth, set on destruction and chaos. She remembered the illustrations of them in the texts—huge, powerful creatures, taking the form of dragons. She'd thought of them only as children's tales at the time; now, here, remembering the images made her skin crawl. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Then we need to find this archdemon."


End file.
